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A BOOK OF POEMS. 

Witk respects ^rom tKe writer to tKe reader. 
May tkis book be cast abroad, truating that it* 
iyiission will be attended witn good result*. 
Sincerely yours, 

LULU EVERTS. 






Copyrighted 1917. 
By LULA EVARTS. 



/ 



OCT 15I9I7 

Printed by Halbert R. Stephens, 
Oklahoma City, Okla. 



TKrougfK tKe kind introduction of ''Buffalo 
Bill", W. F. Cody, I sent these poems to tKe ed- 
itor of Merry War, Clinton, Iowa. Mr. Ben- 
jamin F. Gilbert, who was born May 22, 1822, at 
CKambersburg, Penn. Mr. Gilbert was Buffalo 
Bill's first school teacher, at Peases Grove, Scott 
County, la. Fifty years bad elapsed when B. F. 
Gilbert happened to be in Rock Island, 111., 
where Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show was play- 
ing. He went to the performance, met Buffalo 
Bfli and had a long personal talk with him. Mr, 
Cody had recognised his old school teacher on 
sight. He had been a mere lad of six when he 
went to school under Mr. Gilbert. Though over 
fifty years had elapsed, he remarked as he laid 
his hand on Mr. Gilbert's head and shook his 
hand with a iirm grasp, ''I have traveled all over 
Europe, have shaken hands with great Monarchs 
and Queens, and with Presidents of the United 
States, but one hrm grasp from that dear old 
hand that tatight me my A B C's does me more 
good than anything in the world." With tears 
rolling down his cheeks when he bade his old 
i-chool master good bye, he remarked: ''God 
bless you, I hope we meet again." 

After his old friend had started to leave, he 
called him back, wiping the tears from his eyes 
f.nJ began laughing. "Whatever became of your 
boy, Dewese, that I played with, the one that 
swallowed the bullet?" "Oh!" remarked Mr. 
Gilbert, "the bullet didn't hurt him, he is still 
alive, the last time I heard, and has raised a 
large family, living now at Beatrice, Nebraska." 

This is a true statement and can be vouched 
for by the Editor of Merry War, Clinton, Iowa. 

Benjamin Franklin Gilbert died at Daven- 
port, Iowa, Aug. 5, 1904. 



WOMAN. 

By W, R. Austin. 

TKere is tKe idle woman, 

WKo lives in town. 

That nothingf will please. 

But to dress like a clown. 

She clatters and cKats 

About ribbons and bats 

And anything else would brin^ fortk a frown. 

But if to ber face you'd brin^ fortb a smile^ 

Get ber a fashion plate. 

And talk about the style. 

And tell her she^s right up to date. 

She'll be the happiest woman in the state. 

But iken if you wish a few fights. 

Just change your position and oppose woman's 

rights. 
And soon you'll hear. 
The gossips report. 
She's gone to a judge 
And haled you into court. 
Then comes the busy woman. 
Who lives on the farm. 
And cares little for fashion or style. 
But takes great pride 
In the look of the farm. 
And the pleasures of home. 
That make hubby smile. 

To the pleasures of home' she s wiae awake. 
So fihe bakes her own bread, pies and cake 
And has no time for the gossips from town 
Who advise her to make of herself a clown. 
For she's busy all day with home-making affairs. 
That tend to make pleasures of hubby's cares. 
And that keep love long ago won. 
Instead of the gossip that's done. 



LOVELY MARY. 

By W. E. Austin and Lulu Evarts. 

Copyrighted by Lulu Evarts. 

On Ker cheeks the roses bloom. 
Bonny blue in each bright eye, 
She'll be a beauty soon. 
With lots of smiles and not a sigh. 
With rosette lips so sweet to kiss. 
And pearly teeth so white. 
The first o( which I'd never miss. 
If I but had the right. 
Her bonnet's always trimmed in blue. 
And rouge upon her face, 
A shiny buckle on her shoe. 
Her frocks all trimmed in lace. 
She'll win the prize of ardent love. 
With good cheer never w^eary. 
From those who love a gentle dove. 
For such 13 Lovely J^-lp.ry. 



WRECKED ON BOARD THE BARK OF LOVE 

^ By W. F. Gilbert. 
Cast upon life's stormy sea, 
Wrecked on board the bark of love. 
Are there no joys for me. 
Until I reach my home above? 
Alas, I'm sad and forlorn. 
From my loved ones ca^t away; 
Ahl How good never to have been born 
To meet sad disappointment and sore dismay. 
But I hope some day to find, 
'Ere life shall cross death's dark glen, 
My loved ones to be more kind. 
And permit me to be with them. 
And in their joys and pleasures mingle. 
To rest my aching heart. 
To hear their merry laugh that tingles. 
All these sad hours w^e are apart. 



FOR THE KING OR KNAVE. 

(A War Song). 

By G. W. Gilbert. 

How many wKo 'wonder wKy, 
Our soldiers go to battle and to die, 
For mere order oi a kin^ ji. knave. 
Only to fill a warrior^s grave. 
Wben all is said and done. 
And the soldier's race is run, 
What more can be said. 
For his obedience, Ke is dead. 
For Kis king and crown. 
He went to the Iront, 
And was tKere cut down. 
To Kim who IS slain. 
For some other's fame. 
The world has no pleasures more; 
For him who on the battle field, spilled his gore, 
But why should in wonder attempt to tell, 
The horrors and the glories of those who in 
battle fell. 



IN RAPTURE SUBLIME. 

(Dedicated to Little Polney). 

Sweet Little Polney has a sweet little face. 

And eyes of azvire blue. 

An agile form full of grace, 

A heart ever fond and true. 

And a head of silken curls. 

That every one first, exclai^ri^,. 

''Oh! What a pretty little girl T* 

Because the face wears a smile of bloom. 

The fact of the matter is. 

The little silken head is a boy. 

And with his childish prattle. 

Is his mother^s pride and joy. 



A DAISY IN THE DELL. 

Written July I, 1914. 

I asked a daisy in the dell. 
Which brightens all that is lovely in life. 
To give me truth that truth might be. 
My guiding star to everlasting life. 
"Ah,'* replied the daisy, 
"I'll give you truth, 
For truth is reason. 
And all things come in season; 
And life is like a dream. 
And not what it seems. 
For soon we enter life. 
With all its joys and strife — 
Too soon we die. 
Nor learn we the reason why. 
But blighted in our fondest hopes. 
We return to that from which we came — the 
Unknown." 



A REFLECTION. 

By J. W. Evarts, Written in 1852. 

Ah, yes, it is pleasant. 

To view a bright star, 

Enthraled by its lustre sublime. 

Transiently pleasant. 

But sweeter by far. 

When leisurely I may recline 

In the warm fragrant groves 

Where the light heart roves. 

And Cupid IS jester for Time. 

Let Angels' bright wings 

Fan deftly the brow 

Of the spirit who sings oi friendship's vow^ 

While I worship at friendship's shrine. 

Bringing treasures from friendships of mine. 

And I quan the sv^^eet wine. 

Of the spirit divine. 

While the Angels have gone 

To their palace of song. 



THE OLD WOODEN ROCKER. 

Mother, dear mother. 
Come kiss me good night, 
And sing me a song 
That was my delight. 

Chorus. 

Of the old wooden rocker. 

That dear old rocker 

That rocked to and fro. 

That rocked me to sleep long ago. 

Many a night my mother 
Rocked me, a babe, to sleep. 
Now mother has gone 
And left me alone to weep 

Chorus. 

By the old wooden rocker. 

That dear old rocker 

That rocked to and fro. 

That rocked me to sleep long ago. 

Oh, mother, dear mother. 
Your fond memory I keep, 
As o*er my infancy 
You rocked me to sleep. 

Chorus. 

In the old wooden rocker 

That dear old rocker 

That rocked io and fro. 

That rocked me to sleep long ago. 

That old wooden rocker; 

How dear to my heart. 

As memories round me creep. 

Of mother who rocked me to sleep. 



Chorus. 

In the old wooden rocker. 

That dear old rocker, 

That rocked to and fro. 

That rocked me to sleep long ago. 

Many are longing tonight. 
As the shadows creep. 
For some dear mother 
To rock them to sleep. 

Chorus. 

In the old wooden rocker 

That dear old rocker 

That rocked to and fro. 

That rocked them to sleep long ago. 



DREAM, OH DREAM, OF ME AND MINE. 

By J. W. Evarts (Written July 1, 1898). 

Why do I love? Why do the sky and sea 

In whirling act, embrace and dance with glee? 

Why light descend, it's heat to lave 

Down m the clear and deep blue wave? 

Why birds sail far on airy wings 

And mate m rapture while they sing? 

Can'st tell, eweet one, why blooms the rose? 

Why tired life seeks heart's repose? 

Then, pretty darling, you can tell 

Why my heart loves you so well. 

A.h ! -were I but a bird of wing, 

I'd light nearby and softly creep 

Close by your ear and gently sing 

My darling fast asleep. 

And \vhtsper, dearest, "I love you. 

Pretty darling. Love me too. 

Dream of me till mating time. 

Dream, oh! dream of me and mine." 



I LOVE YOU— DO YOU LOVE ME? 

There's a girl in OklaKoma City, 

TKey say sKe's very witty. 

She wrote some lines. 

Once upon a time 

And here's the way it rhymes. 

I love you — do you love me? 

If you do, just say so 

And well be married, honey. 

But I ain't got much money. 

But what care we, honey. 

We'll ovvn our own sweet honie. 

I don't care about your money. 

It's your love, I want, honey, 

I'll marry you when you say so. 

And we'll be married on our own home sweet 

home. 
If we ain't got much money. 
We can shoo flies and eat honey. 
A.in't that funny? It won't take much money 
To keep you and I, honey. 
If we own our own sweet home. 
Don't marry for money. 
But take my advice. 
Marry for love. 

And live in your own sweet home. 
Go search the wide vi^orld over. 
You'll find no place. 
Be it ever so humble. 
Like your own sw^eet home. 



DECLINING YEARS. 

By J. W. Evarts. 
Written Feb. 19, 1852. 
Music sweetens and brightens 
All that is lovely in life 
And lends pinions to our fondest hopes. 
It cheers the toiler in the struggle of life. 
Inspires courage m heroic deeds. 
Buoys the soul towards richer inspirations, 
Comforts humanity through declining years. 



MY MOTHER'S CHAIR. 

TKere is in our Kome, 

A vacant cKair, 

A form we'll always miss, 

'Tis the image of our mother, 

God bless Ker, we love Ker, 

For we'll never find another 

Who can take the place of mother. 

We will not forget our mother. 

Though she sleep in silent tomb. 

Her sweet face we'll never see again 

Until we meet in Heaven. 

Her picture hang^s upon the wall. 

Her vacant chair stands near. 

But the sw^eetest of all 

Is the memory of our mother. 



MY TRUE LOVE. 

I shall not forget the day 

My true love was laid to rest 

With a rose on her breast. 

It w^as in the month of June 

When roses are m bloom. 

Oh! the tears I could not hide 

When I pressed my lips 

To her cold, icy finger tips. 

Oh! the grief, the tears we cannot hide. 

When we bid ovir loved ones farewell. 

Though w^e have hopes for the spirit that s ^on& 

to dwell 
In the Promised Land, 

Where we are told that Angels in robes so w^hite 
Will bid our loved ones a welcome to a home 

above. 
Where love, mvisic and song shall be a delight 

to their ear. 
Then what a glorious sight, if the story be true 
That our loved ones in robes so white 
Will see the golden gates ajar, 
And the glad tidings of the Angels 
To bid them welcome to a mansion in the sky. 
Where they'll never say good-bye. 



WHERE IS HEAVEN, GRANDMA DEAR? 

By Pro{. CKas. J. Keesee. 

Grandma, I am growing tired. 
But before I go to sleep. 
Come where breezes soft are blowing. 
While the nearer shadows creep. 
Are the stars, so still and saint-like. 
Heaven's windows. Grandma dear? 
And are angels looking through theni 
At us in the garden here? 

Chorus. 

Where is Heaven, Grandma dear? 

Is it very far aw^ay? 

And if I should leave you here. 

Could I reach there in a day? 

Will I have an Angel playmate. 

Same as little children here. 

No one cross and none to tease me? 

Where is Heavep,.- Grandma dear? 

Guess the sky is one big curtain, 
Really, I believe, don't you? 
And the stars are only places. 
Where some one has broken through. 
But I never could quite make out 
How FU reach so high. 
Can I get to Heaven, 
When I have no wings to fly? 

• Chorus. 

Where is Heaven, Grandma dear? 

Is it very far away? 

And if I should leave you here. 

Could I reach it in a day? 

Will I have an Angel playmate. 

Same as little children ^re. 

No one cross and none to tease me? 

Where is Heaven, Grandma dear? 



CHILD OF MERCY. 

Sweet AllaK Nook, 
A maiden fair. 

Fair as ere the sun sKone on. 
Dark brown were Ker eyes. 
All golden Ker curls. 
And sweet she did look 
As she wandered by a brook 
WitK a necklace oi pearls. 
O'er meadows and hills 
SKe softly stepped, 
WitK Ker blue cKecked apron, 
GatKering flowers 
As sKe went on. 
Her Keart in ecstacy 
Beat witK a tKrill 
WKen at last sKe came 
To a little Kouse on a Kill. 
"TKis little blue Kouse 
Is my Kome," quotK sKe, 
"TKis dear little Kffuse 
TKat stands on a Kill,'' 
As sKe came near tKe cottage door 
WKere tKe roses climb tKe sweetest, 
And welcomed Ker tKere. 
But Ker dear old dad, wKo was so glad 
As Ke went to meet Kis orpKaned cKild, 
"WKere Kast tKou been," quotK Ke, 
TKougK Kis Kair was wKite as snow. 
And Kis step was slow. 
As tKey went Kome togetKer. 
TKen witK dainty finger tips, just like pearls, 
SKe swung Ker bonnet by Ker side on a brigKt 
summer's day. 



WKile the gentle breezes softly tossed Ker curls. 

Then her answer came 

While she listened to the robins" song so gay. 

O'er meadows and hills. 

She softly said in her child-like glee. 

When she noticed her father's grave, calm, sad 
face. 

And half-shut eyes, 

Then with her blue checked apron. 

She wiped the tears from his soft blue eyes. 

Then looking very sad, her answer came : 

"What makes you cry? 
Look here, dad, I gathered these flowers for 

you. 
As he took the flowers from her soft white hand. 
Then his answ^er came, "I w^ondered w^here thou 

wast, my child. 
As you whiled so many happy hours away; 
Alas, you were not at home — I pray you stay 
With your poor old dad, so old and gray. 
In this little blue house. 
This dear little house 
That stands on a hill." 

"Fll never leave thee, my dear old dad. 
You look so sad since mother died, "she softly 

sighed. 
As she seated him m his old arm chair. 
Then to his heart's delight. 
She sung him many a lullaby, 
And soon he was fast asleep on a summer's day. 
As his old house dog lay at his feet. 
"Oh! My father, as you sink in dreams, low, 

sweet and clear. 
Let my voice be near. 

Let your aged hand in mine be pressed. 
Let your snow-white beard descend on. your 

breast. 
Let my head be pillowed on your breast.'' 



YOUTH AND OLD AGE. 

Once I was youn^ and Kandsome and ^ay, so 

they say. 
My cKeeks were like two red roses, Fm told. 
That bloomed on a summer^s day. 
My hair was black as jet could be; my eyes 

were, too. 

But now that I am getting old and gray 

I feel life is fading fast away. 

When I was young, handsome and gay, 

I never dreamed what it was to be old and gray. 

But now that I'm feeble, old and gray. 

And I cannot see my way, 

I'm told that I must go 

O'er the hills to the poor-house not far away. 

When fortune and kindred gathered around me. 

And young swains smiled upon me, 

I never dreamed then what it was 

To be feeble, old and gray. 

And that some day to the poor-house I would go. 

But now my fortune has dwindled away. 
And my friends have departed, too. 
Tm told I must go over the hills 
To the poor-house not far away. 

When I was young, handsome and gay, 

I lived in a mansion grand 

And never dreamed then what it was 

To be feeble, old and gray. 

And that some day, over the hills 

To the poor-house I would go. 

But now my beauty has faded away. 
And here I stand. Fm feeble, old and gray 
And on my way, over the hills to the poor-house 
Not far away. 



THE LITLE WINDOW. 

I like the little window 

When the sun peeps in at noon. 

I like to sit in my easy chair 

And smoke my pipe of clay. 

And pass the merry hours away 

While I watch the children romp and play. 

I like to see the baby 

As he rolls and tumbles on the floor. 

While Lenore, she hides behind the door. 

'Tis fine, to see the boys play ball. 

For that^s their joy and fun. 

I like to see them skip, 

I like to see them fall 

All around the rooni. 

When the sun peeps in at noon. 

I love fair Alice, 

With big blue eyes and golden hair. 

As she plays on the floor. 

Making dresses for her dolls. 

While her brother, Charles, 

Plays at the open door. 

With his marbles rolling on the floor. 

When the sun peeps m at noon. 

Then comes the fun, we, old and young. 

Begin to hop and dance 

All around the room. 

When old Uncle Ephraham begins to play 

The old Virginia reel 

While sweet little Nell at the cottage door 

Is turning the spinning wheel. 

When the sun peeps in at noon. 

We like to smell the flne fat possum. 

Boiling in the pot. 

With sweet 'taters all around. 

That would invite any coon a mile around 

When the sun peeps in at noon. 

We, old and young, we like to see the turkey 

trot 
We like to see him strut. 



We like to see tKe old bob-tailed rooster 

When be titters on tbe gate. 

We like to see old Grover, 

Wben be wags bis tail upon tbe floor. 

We like to see Uncle Epbrabam, 

Wben be "Hangs up de fiddle and de bow,^' 

We like to see Mariab wben sbe sweeps tbe floor 

We like to bear tbe tick oi tbe old brass clock 

As it bangs upon tbe wall, 

Wben tbe sun peeps m at noon. 



SHE'S THE GIRL FOR ME. 

Beneatb ber cbapeau 

All trimmed in lace. 

As sbe walks witb a gentle manner, 

So full oi grace 

All dressed sublime 

I know sbe^ll be mine 

As sbe quaffs witb me 

Tbe flowing cbalice, 

Tbe nectar's sweet wine, 

Sbe's tbe girl for me. 

Sweet Anna Bell. 

As sbe wanders to and fro, 

Gatbering daises in tbe dell, 

Sbe says sbell be mine 

And love no one but me. 

My own true love. 

Sweet Anna Bell, 

As sbe quaffs witb me 

Tbe flowing cbalice, 

Tbe nectar's sweet wine. 



BEAUTIFUL EYES. 

AK! love first finds beauty 

In a woman's eye. 

For sKe becomes an ardent companion 

When she has a fine disposition. 

But, oh ! such a strange sensation 

When she looks at you with sweet surprise 

For she knows she's won the prize. 

For there's no beauty that shines like a woman's 

eye. 
Such beautiful eyes. 
Just like azure skies. 
They surely hypnotize. 
When they look at you 
With sw^eet surprise. 
For love and beauty 
Shine in a vv^oman's eyes. 



WHEN THE WAR IS OVER. 

(To Mr. Huntington). 
When the war is o'er 
Many a longing heart 
Will beat with joy. 
When the war is o'er. 
Many a longing heart will shed a tear 
When we soldier boys. 
In our uniforms oi bkie. 
With the Stars and Stripes, 
Smoking our pipes. 
Come marching home, once more. 
When the -war is o'er. 
When the waris o'er. 
And our victory is won. 
Then let's cheer up boys, 
For our emblem so true 
Our colors, the Red, White and Blue, 
That have won our victory. 
Let Old Glory proudly wave. 
O'er the homes of our brave 
And the land that's made us free. 
Sweet land of Liberty, 
When we soldiers come marching home again. 



HOPE'S SETTING STAR. 

By J. W. Evarts. 
I Kave roamed o'er tne wide world xn quest oi 

a guide. 
Like the one who went down in tKe ocean's blue 

tide. 
But my Keart is still yearning {or tKe spirit that 

fled. 
While alone m my vigils Hope s idol is dead. 
TKe glory oi young manKood Kas faded from 

view 
And tKougK year after year my sad life I renew 
TKere's no balm m new^ friendsKip to cKarm 

aw^ay care. 
No power in sweet music to lift my despair. 

TKougK tKe brigKt wKirl of fasKion dulls senses 
of w^oe 

Yet I'm Kaunted by lost love wKere'er I may go. 

And wKile casts its sKadow o'er my time-wrinkled 
brow, 

TKere d^vells in my sad soul young love s simple 
vow. 

TKougK my kindred and friends, of life's early 
years 

Are borne to tKe tomb midst sorrou' and tears 

Yet tKe pain for tKeir absence is naugKt to com- 
pare 

WitK tKe moan for lost love in tKe nigKt of des- 
pair. 

CKorus. 

I Kave passed tKrovigK tKe last turn in long, 
weary life. 

Have fougKt bravely eacK battle and won in eacK 
strife. 

But tKe fierce storm of anguisK tKat sweeps o'er 
my soul. 

Gives no token of respite as tKe years onward 
roll. 

ManKood's prime Kas elapsed, I'm fast turning 
^ray, 

WKile time and its mystery are circling away. 

And tKougK dim grows my vision yet a sigKt 
deeper far 

Sees tKe ligKt of tKe loved ones in Kope's set- 
ting star. 



MEMORIAL MONOGRAM. 

By J. W. Evarts. 
On this page, wKat can or should I write? 
Not of frail things that quickly droop and die. 
No transitory thoughts should I here indite. 
No echoing vigils of times that withering lie. 
Why speak of forms or flowers that face today. 
Why laud fair fields that soon are dry and shorn. 
Why talk of things death has laid away? 
To wither and droop is brightest beauty born. 
To passion's shrine no meed of praise is due. 
To beauty's queen a heart of stone is given 
Woes and strife, ambition's path lead through. 
Wealth and power are by the tumults riven. 
All things must perish as time's cycles turn, 
All vital breath is quick to come and go. 
Memory recoils from earth's ignoble urn. 
Life's fitful sparks turn upw^ard m its woes. 
Who live for passion, dies as sorrow^'s slaves. 
Who live for power, die mocked by they who 

mourn. 
Who live for wealth, are honored most by knaves. 
And self love by heartless hands are born. 
What then, in life is worth a word of praise, 
In earth's expanse, in depths below^ or skies 

above? 
What then to repay the toil of life's dark days? 
No answer comes if not in immortal love. 



A VISION OF PARADISE. 

By J. V. Evarts (Written in 1892.) 
"Mr. Crow, what on earth does this mean? 
Somebody is getting into this bed. It seems all 
the devils in hell are let loose." 

**Oh, no, Evarts, there is nothing unusual. 
You must be dreaming. My arm may be touch- 
ing you as I turn over." 

"Arm nothing. Somebody is crawling in on 
the back side. Dreaming 1 Dreaming 1 No, I'm 
wide awake and sitting up, and there's a man 



with a lantern just coming in/' 

"Lay down and sleep, Evarts. That terrible 
rain storm we Kad last night made you a little 
nervous. Take a good drink of this brandy; it 
will cure that chill you had today." 

I partook of the brandy copiously, show^ing 
I was wide awake, and laid down again with no 
more consciousness until Mr. Crowe lit a lamp 
and called me at 5 :30 the next morning for 
breakfast. While dressing, I related a vision the 
most real imaginable that came to me that night. 
One thing about Mr. Crowe, he w^as a very fine 
cook and breakfast w^as soon ready. We each 
took forty-one or more drops of brandy, and 
w^hile eating, Mr. Crow^e remarked to me that he 
w^ould introduce me to a couple of his most con- 
genial friends after breakfast. He gathered the 
leavings of the table into a platter and called 
*'Elijah," "Job." "Come to your breakfast." In- 
stantly the bed covers moved vigorously and Mr. 
Crowe raised the quilt and laid them back on the 
foot board, disclosing two monstrous reptiles, 
who viciously thrust out tongues seven or eight 
inches long, crawled to the door and ate their 
food. They then gave me a searching stare, 
moved slowly toward a big hole in the dirt wall 
of the house, looked back at me sharply and dis- 
appeared. A moment later, the head of one of 
the reptiles appeared at the mouth of the hole 
and took from Mr. Crow's hand a piece of fresh 
meat and returned. Then the other followed 
suit. In size, one was fully twelve feet long and 
four inches in diameter with a head about ten 
inches long, hve inches broad and three inches 
thick. The other reptile was a trifle smaller, 
about seven feet long. In color, they resembled 
the rattle snake breed. What was very singu- 
lar, was that when Mr. Crowe was alone in the 
house, the reptiles would come out of their dens 
and rub their heads in a caressing manner as if 
their feeling were responsive to his kindness to 
them. 



John M. Crowe was in the Confederate serv- 
ice during the Civil War. He has been well 
known since that time in northern Texas, Indian 
Territory and Oklahoma, as a man of strict in- 
tegrity, a good neighbor and a worthy citizen. 
In 1889, w^hen Oklahoma was thrown open to 
settlement, Mr. Crow^e and myself took home- 
steads about five miles r.Outh oi where the small 
village of Yukon is now i:- ated. In September 
pf that year, Mr. Crowe and I traveled over the 
Chickasaw Nation, enjoying, together, many days 
of hunting and fishing, enjoying out-door camp 
life when that country wa3 a wilderness. Our 
destination was Suggsville in the heart of the 
notorious Picken county w^here Mr. Crowe owned 
and operated a cotton gin, a grist mill, a fairly 
good house, and farm machinery. I w^as shaking 
with ague when v/c arrived at Suggsville. The 
only medicine obtainable was arsenic, quinine 
and calomel and the abominable brandy from 
Fort Reno, Okla. 

But no medicine ■v^'^as needed after the first 
night at Mr. Crov/e's house. With two mons- 
trous reptiles as bed fellows — whether the con- 
tact cured iny malady, or intense fright did it, 
I cannot say — the demon of disease w^as cast 
out, leaving me spell-bound, as if in a hypnotic 
trance. Continually haunting me, was a man 
with a lantern. And in the wonderful vision 
the same man was showing me a most beautiful 
country and leading me into a vast ampitheatre 
filled v/ith many thousands of finely dressed peo- 
ple. Among them he pointed to the speaker, 
who was Benjamin Franklin, explaining an ap- 
paratus which he called a pschycoscope, and 
w^hich he had proven w^ould accurately transmit 
thought from one planet to another. 

I have no doubt but that Mr, Crowe will 
vouch for the simple truth of this narrative, and 
if questioned could give facts connected w^ith his 
pet snakes. It would be well worth scientific in- 
quiry. 



LAND MONOPOLY. 

By J. W. EvarU. 
The CKristian religfion is a mi9nomef> 
WKy? Because it strains at Koly diays, wKereAs 
Jesus was a Sabbath bfeaken Because it med- 
dles witK personal liberty, wKereas Jesus was a 
wine maker. Because it sdys morality will not 
save, whereas only the pure in heart shall see 

God. 

Law IS a misnomer. Why? Because it 
favors the rich and oppresses the poor, because 
it upholds land monopoly, ^vhile the poor are 
homeless and lacking bread. Because it incor- 
porates seizures oi the fruits of toil, while labor- 
ers are driven into vagrancy and crime. Presi- 
dents, martyrs and statesmen of iall ages, sell 
themselves to the church for the price of the 
religious vote. In as much as special cohesive 
power accrues to protestant theology, wherein 
liars, thieves, perjurers, robbers artd embezzleri^ 
flood in resistance to malicious law^s. 



That which nature bestows upon man is 
what nature possesses, previous to man — physi- 
cal structure and intellect pre-expressing m 
nature. — J. W. Evarts- 



By Benjamin F, Gilbert. 
Go crazy, preacher, and to pale Cynthia hovi'l. 
And be answered by the screeching owl. 
You make God hideous with your fearful hells. 
For what it is and where it is you ne'er pretend 
to tell. 



By J. B. Gilbert. 
If I be a doctor, I must break my rest artd stand 

the cold. 
To obtain the shining gold. 
If I be a law^yer, I must lie and cheat. 
For an honest lawyer has no bread to eat. 

■211 








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